applause applause, life is our cause
by jonimitchell
Summary: The stone house at the end of the lane is ironically lacking in Christmas decorations every year. REPOST. AU.


**_glee_, as always, is not mine, none are any of the songs mentioned.**

* * *

><p><em>i<em>.

The stone house at the end of the lane is ironically lacking in Christmas decorations every year. Irony, he thinks, a noun meaning a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result. Definition courtesy of the fat, blue SAT prep book sitting on his desk back home.

He doesn't tell anyone about his annual excursion to Brooklyn. Kurt, his stepbrother, would kill him, and his mom and Burt would scold him for _hours_ on his "alarming misuse of time". He's heard it all before, honestly, and he comes here to escape. It's the day after Thanksgiving, and this lane always has the best Christmas decorations, seemingly put up only hours after the turkey is pulled from the oven. But this house sticks out every year, bare and absent of the gleaming lights and decorations. Every year, an irrational hope grows in his stomach that next year that place'll be in the spirit—but they never are, and like clockwork, disappointment surges through his veins.

Last year, he heard the most beautiful voice singing. Now, he's heard plenty of great, talented singers in his life, but the sound of this voice leapt into his chest and took hold of his heart. This year, he hears faint singing, and there is a light shining on the porch of the dispirited house, and his gloved fingers clench in his coat pockets. His feet lurch forward, towards the steps, but he hears the faint singing growing stronger beside him. Alarmed, his head turns to meet the eyes of a tiny, delicate girl, wearing a long brown skirt and a thin white tank top, long hair loose and curling down her back. There are a lot of crazies in New York City, and this girl must be another one of them—it's like, thirty degrees out tonight—and he knows he should call his driver and head back to his penthouse in Manhattan.

"I know you," she says abruptly, turning and facing him. Her voice draws his eyes to her face, and he drinks in her big, dark eyes and high cheekbones. He's struck with how exotically pretty she is, and his eyes roam down her body and stop at her collarbone as she continues, "You come here _every_ year and stand in front of our house for ten minutes. Daddy always wants to bring you food, but we always forget to be prepared. We tend to keep mostly vegan stuff in the house, mainly for my diet, bless my parents' souls, so we never remember to get something, well, _normal_ for you."

A hot blush rises and pours over his cheeks, staining the pale skin red. She smiles when she finishes talking, and he thinks she's just about the prettiest girl he's ever seen. "Don't worry," she says quickly, and he's shocked to feel her small, cold hand in his, "we don't think you're scary or anything. Just lost."

"Oh," he manages to mutter, and he can't really concentrate on anything but the weight of her hand in his. His tongue darts out of his mouth to run along his chapped lips, and he finds the courage to ask, "Why're you out here?"

"I like to see the lights," she explains, "we're Jewish, so we don't get to hang them up, though Daddy does quite like the sentiment of the holiday."

He takes his bottom lip between his teeth as a light snowfall begins to twirl from the sky. Her small thin arms lift up and she does a little twirl that he thinks might be the most adorable movement he's ever seen a person do in his life. The snow whirls around them in flurries, falling to his shoulders and sticking to her dark hair. He watches one in particular as it falls from the sky and lands and subsequently melts on her bare shoulder. "You must be freezing," he says softly, "in just that tank top."

She shrugs, but he detects a chill running up her spine, as well as goose bumps prickling her skin. "I'm Rachel, Rachel Berry, and one day you will see my name in lights on Broadway."

She squeezes his hand and shakes it, looking for his introduction, presumably, so he blurts out, "I'm Finn Hudson."

"Nice to meet you, Finn Hudson." She shivers again and glances at the hazy moon and then back at him. "I'm going to go inside. It was nice meeting you. Maybe you should stop by another time."

"Like when?"

She smiles and bites her bottom lip, "Whenever you feel it's right." She releases his hand and twirls away from him, and up the stairs, and in one night she has completely captivated him.

_ii_.

He finds his way home, dazed and starry eyed, and ignores Kurt's indignant, "_Where were you_," shouts and locks himself in his room. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up, and he feels like he's moving underwater as he flops onto his bed and turns his stereo on. A quiet song glides through the high quality speakers and he finds himself thinking of dark brown eyes and cold skin, and a million colored lights reflected on her eyelashes.

The navy walls around him disappear and fade to black, and she's all he can see, all he can hear. Her voice echoes in his mind, reverberating between his ears and sliding out of his lips in a breathy _Rachel_.

_iii_.

There's a tree in her front yard, branches weighted down with an inch of snow. He climbs the stairs and knocks on the door, and she answers, wearing a tee shirt with a giant cat on it and black leggings. She grins when she recognizes him, and calls out to whoever is in her house, "I'm heading out for a bit."

She grabs a coat and boots this time, but no gloves or scarf, and he debates taking off his scarf and wrapping it around her neck. Her hands slip into his, small and thin winding around his thick fingers. She's brazen, but still quiet as she leans close to him and surveys their surroundings. "Where're we going?" He asks, though quiet, the thick rasp of his voice breaks the tranquility between them.

"On a walk," she explains. The snow falls onto her hair, and then collects on her eyelashes, and he's so consumed by her that he stops them, leans down and presses his mouth against hers. She smiles against his lips and pulls away.

They continue walking in the downy snowfall.

_iv_.

"I've got a boyfriend, you know," she tells him on New Year's Eve. She's curled into his chest on the sectional sofa in her living room. "His name's Jesse."

"Huh," Finn says, and he's surprised that he's not jealous, as he usually is when a girl he's into is otherwise taken. "Hope he doesn't mind how attached I am to you."

"Oh, Finn," she sighs, "you don't know a thing about me. How could you become so attached?" Her words are slightly condescending, but the smile on her face tells him she doesn't mean to sound that way.

"Tell me about you," he murmurs, and she pulls him closer, her lips winding up pressed against the rough stubble on his chin. She wiggles around until her chest is pressed against his, her small hands rubbing circles on the sweater clad skin. "All I know is where you go to school, that arts academy—but, like, what do you _do_, y'know?"

"I'm in the winter musical," she explains, surprisingly shyly.

He hums against her forehead as his fingers slide down the backs of her thighs. "What musical?"

Her breath hitches slightly at the contact, and she looks at him quickly, before stuttering, "_West Side Story_."

"You know I have two gay dads," she informs him, "and they're supportive of my Broadway endeavors. But my mom—my biological mom, the surrogate—she…she came back last year, looking for me and then left, and I just heard she adopted some girl's baby."

"Oh, Rach," he murmurs softly. She sucks her bottom lip in her mouth and breathes out after a moment. His hands slide up her body, curving around her hips and resting on her back, comforting her the only way he knows how, physically. But it seems to appease her, and she takes a deep breath and smiles at him—a _real_, Rachel smile.

"My dad died when I was a baby," he tells her, "and then my mom remarried Burt, and she loves him."

"It doesn't sound much like you do."

"I don't mind him, really, but…he's been pressuring me into being a lawyer, and going to Columbia, and I don't—I don't think that's what I wanna do. I wanna help people, save lives—like my dad."

Her eyes peruse his face, and she smiles softly. "You're so amazing, Finn."

"What do you mean?" Her thin fingers reach up to smooth his furrowed brow.

"You're just—you're so special, Finn. You're so unlike all those other rich guys who live in the Upper East Side. You are going to do so many good things, Finn."

He loves her. He can't tell her, though, but he still leans up and kisses her, mouth curving sweetly with his. All the tension in his shoulders releases as they kiss, her hands on his collar, and his around her waist. He's never felt like this before, so right; he's never felt _everything_ before.

He moans a little, and everything changes. Her lips are a little more careless, and he slips his tongue into her mouth as she lies on her back, tugging at his arms to slide up her waist and brush against her chest. She groans his name, and it's the best feeling in the world, and his lips slide down her face, trailing along her jaw and peppering along her neck. "Rachel," he sighs against her collarbone, "Rachel, are you—"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you want to do this?" Her eyes get big and scared, and he sits up slightly. "I want this to be—to be special for you, y'know?"

"Didn't I just tell you how special you are?" She says softly, and pulls him back to her.

"But we're not dating," he whispers.

"We don't have to be." His heart cracks slightly, but heals as she kisses him softly, and it's like she's showing him her entire world. "Finn, I really, _really_ care about you."

He knows he loves her, from her swollen lips to her tiny feet as they curl behind his knees. "But you've got a boyfriend."

"Jesse doesn't love me like you do. Now, please, Finn, I want this—I want _you_."

He wants to ask her how she knows, how she figured him out, but he doesn't. Instead, he licks his lips and releases a long breath through his nose. His hand caresses her cheek of its own accord, and his decision is made as his mouth falls onto hers softly.

_v_.

He's standing in a lobby, uncomfortable with all the staring as he clutches a brilliant bouquet of pink and white tulips. Something about the flower just reminded him of _her_, and he knew bringing them to her performance would make her smile. He asked some girl named Mercedes when she'd come out and the girl just rolled her eyes and said, "the diva's always the last one out". He assumes Rachel is the diva.

Ever since they slept together, he's become even _more_ attached to her. A little stronger, more confident in everything, but especially _her_, even though she's still dating Jesse. He's not so afraid anymore.

Somehow, he feels her presence before he sees her, and she nearly tackles him in greeting. Her arms wrap around his nick, legs winding around his waist, and she's lucky he's got receptive reflexes, or else she would've landed on the floor, cracked skull and all. The bouquet presses between them, the cellophane brushes against her chin and she slides down his body.

"The flowers are lovely," she mumbles, lifting them to her nose and breathing in deep.

"So are you," he blurts out, without thinking. Her eyes soften and she even touches his cheek for a second. "You were amazing," he repeats.

A curly haired guy approaches them and slings his arm around Rachel. He's shorter than Finn, with a scarf wrapped around his neck. "Jesse St. James," he introduces, sticking his hand out. Finn shakes it, lifting his eyebrow, and tells him his name.

Rachel doesn't take her eyes off of him as this guy gloats and boasts about _everything_—the show, his house, and most of all, Rachel. That's the last straw for him, because imagining someone else having Rachel in the same capacity as him twists and tears at his heart, and he excuses himself before he really knows what he's doing.

"Finn!" She yells, chasing after him, boots padding against the tile as he storms out the doors. He doesn't quite know why he's reacting this way, but really, he does—he loves her, quite frankly, he's completely, totally, head over heels _in love with her_ and she doesn't love him back.

He stops when he hears her voice cry out for him again, turning and staring steely-eyed at her. "Finn," she repeats, "don't you _dare_ leave me."

Her eyes are big and shiny, like the night he first met her, but with tears now, and her hair is pulled back in a tight, straight ponytail, and she's bundled up in dark jeans, a thick, black coat, and knee high boots, and she's nothing like she was that first night right now (though he is thankful she's finally being mindful of the weather). "This hurts too much," he rasps, turning his body away from her, and he feels that tie bonding them together twist and snap, and it doesn't break, but love shouldn't hurt this much. "I'll see you when I see you."

"Finn!" She yells, and she sounds so unlike herself that he nearly collapses with the feeling, "Please. Please don't leave me." He doesn't respond to her pleas and hops into the first cab that stops.

_vi_.

He's not surprised when she finds him. She has this way of knowing him, even after so many weeks apart, she still feels him (he knows because he can still feel her).

Naturally, he's lying on his back, miserable, when he feels his heartbeat thrum in his chest, and then he hears her voice talking to the housekeeper. And then her footsteps climbing the spiral stairs reach his ears, and she knocks on the door. She barges in without waiting for an answer, long hair loose with bare feet. It's the middle of March; the city is still haunted with the lingering chill of winter, but it isn't surprising to him that Rachel's wearing a thin, purple, knee length cotton dress with carousel horses printed all around it, small feet bare. He stares at her from his spot on the bed.

"You left me," she accuses, "you didn't come back."

"You cheated, played me _and_ Jesse."

"You _knew_ the circumstances of our liaisons when they began!" Her voice is loud and shrill, and he's never heard her really sound like that.

"I got too attached. You made me love you." She bites her bottom lip and, after a moment's deliberation, he opens his arms. She climbs onto the bed to lie with him, ear resting against his thrumming, singing heart. "I hate you."

She slips her hand under his shirt. "You don't." Their legs tangled together over the plain, white mattress. A familiar song fills the room, and she hums along to the guitar and, singing, "_This is the first day of my life, I swear I was born right in the doorway_." Later, "I like your house."

_vii_.

The cherry blossom tree wilts halfway through April. They're sitting beneath it, his arms locked around her waist, when a petal falls and lands in her hair. He plucks it out and runs his hand through her hair. Her bare foot curls under his kneecap as his fingers rub the sliver of skin between the waist of her skirt and the hem of her tank top.

His fingers ease into hers, back settling against the cool stone of her house. A soft Nat King Cole tune is playing in her kitchen, his ears strain to find the melody and hum along. She begins singing along, her breath warm and sweet against his cheek, "_That's why, darling, it's incredible, that someone so unforgettable thinks that I am unforgettable, too_."

"You're my soul mate," he tells her softly as she hums along to the music. She only smiles and kisses the corner of his mouth.

"We're going to get married." The words slide out of her throat easily, as if declaring their future plans when they're barely seventeen is simple. Giggling, she turns in his arms and straddles his hips, sunflower necklace falling and brushing his chest as she moves. "You are going to be a fireman, and I will be your famous Broadway wife."

He laughs, "My beautiful, famous Broadway wife, you mean." The idea of being a fireman appeals to him, really appeals, and he knows his mother would kill him if she told him. But he plans to look into it more, and he feels his eyes soften as he stares at the tiny girl planning their future above him.

"We are going to live in a little one bedroom apartment in Williamsburg when we first start out, and then we are going to get a kitten from the APL. When we get enough money—without using your trust fund—we'll move into a house like this one, and we'll start our family as soon as I win my first Tony."

He kisses her softly, rolling around so her back presses into the dirt. She takes it to mean he agrees.

_viii_.

The college application season rolls around much too quickly for his taste, and naturally, Rachel is already on top of things and admitted to NYU early decision by October. Finn hasn't even considered what he wants to do quite yet, though Burt reiterates everyday about his "guaranteed spot at Columbia". And maybe that's not what he wants to do. Maybe he wants to sell all his fancy, expensive stuff, purchase a guitar and live with Rachel in a cramped studio apartment in Brooklyn and spend his life making music.

He knows it's just a lucid, fever dream, though, and settles for something more plausible—joining the FDNY. He tells Burt and his mother over dinner one night, "I think I'm going to become a fireman," and he can feel his smile stretching his lips, and can only imagine the dimples in the creases of his cheeks that Rachel claims are _the absolute cutest_.

Much to his chagrin, though, Burt and Carole laugh in a way that makes him feel stupid, and he hasn't felt stupid ever since he got a near perfect SAT score (scores that will, unfortunately, be going to waste—not that he cares—after all what does a stupid test tell you about self worth). "Oh, Finn," his mother laughs, and he feels like he's in one of those strange teen movies where everyone laughing at him gets louder and louder till it's all he can hear. "Finn, you are _too_ funny."

He doesn't even try and tell them he was being serious.

_ix_.

"I want to meet your family," Rachel tells him later that night as she twirls around in her room to some song from the sixties. He's lying across her bed and shakes his head.

"No, you don't."

"Do they even know about me?" He shakes his head again, and she laughs. He's so glad she's not angry. "Finn, wherever do you tell them you're going when you spend all your time with me?"

"I stopped using Burt's driver and started taking the subway so that he wouldn't rat me out, and I just tell them I'm going to the library to study."

"And it works?"

"It has so far."

"This should be our song," she says, "_When I think of your kisses, my mind seesaws_."

"But, baby girl, this song is so sad." Her head snaps up and her eyes meet him.

"You've never called me that before."

"I haven't?"  
>"No."<p>

"Do you…like it?"

"Yes." He nods and tugs her down on the bed beside him. "_I wanna make you feel free, I wanna make you feel free_."

She rolls onto her stomach beside him and nudges him with her shoulder as the next song plays over the record player, "Actually, this one might be better for us." The vinyl crackles and she sings along, "_We don't need a piece of paper from the city hall, keeping us tied and true_."

"Baby, I'm not your old man."

"_He's my sunshine in the morning, he's my fireworks at the end of the day_." He tickles her and she dissolves into giggles, squealing and shrieking as his fingers dig into her sides. "Finn!"

"Punishment, sunshine," he murmurs, and then he kisses her. But as they're kissing, she breaks away and begins singing over and over, "_my old man_," so much so that he begins to tickle her again.

Her daddy knocks on the door and chuckles at seeing Rachel curled in a ball on her bed, laughing. "Just making sure we weren't being robbed," he teases, and with a wink, backs out of the room.

They lie down beside one another on the bed when he leaves. "I like your dads."

"They really love you, Finn."

"Really?"

"Mhmm. I think they love you more than me." He rolls his eyes and winds his arm around her waist.

"Impossible. No one is more lovable than _you_, baby."

"Then take me to meet your family!" He groans.

"Fine, fine. You win. I'll take you to meet them." She squeals and claps her hands excitedly.

"Okay, when?"

"I'll call you when I find out," he laughs as she hops off the bed and yanks open her closet door.

"What should I wear? Will we be at your house or a fancy restaurant?"

"Whatever you wear, I'm sure you'll look perfect."

_x_.

The knock at the door alerts him to her arrival, and he rushes to answer it before anyone else can. His sock covered feet slide across the hardwood floor, but he manages to make it to the door without falling flat on his face. He jerks open the door and she smiles at him widely, wearing a light pink dress with a dark pink cardigan over it. On her feet are white socks that cover her ankles and black shoes with a slight heel.

She stands on her tiptoes to kiss him on the mouth and twirls for him. "Like my dress?"

"It's beautiful," he assures her, "just like you. Is it new?"

"To me, yes. I found it at this amazing little vintage shop that I've only ever been to a few times before. I thought the socks were an appropriate touch. It's a very 1950s dress, don't you think?"

He agrees. "Wanna come in?" She nods and slips her fingers into his, and they're shaking very slightly. "You don't have a coat?"

"Nope," she responds, swinging their hands between them as he leads her into the foyer. "It's nice out tonight."

"Baby, it's, like—"

"Finn," his mother interrupts, "is this your friend?"

He glances at Rachel from the corner of his eye and squeezes her hand. "Yeah. Mom, this is my girlfriend, Rachel. Rach, this is my mom."

"Pleasure," his mother says coolly, sticking out her hand and shaking Rachel's firmly. He glances at Rachel out of the corner of his eye. "You arrived just in time for dinner, thankfully. Come along."

Dinner is uncomfortable and awkward as his mom and Burt interrogate Rachel about her life, from her school—_oh, you go to an arts school, do you_—to her future plans, and they're _very_ interested to hear about her Broadway dreams.

"Surely, you know how unlikely it is that you'll make it," his mother says slowly, as if Rachel is stupid (she's the smartest person he knows). "How little of a chance there is for you to be successful, I mean."

Rachel bites her lip and gives Finn a sad glance. She knows this isn't going well, not at all how they'd hoped. "Yes, ma'am, I do know, but I trust and believe in myself enough that I _know_ I'll make it—I have to."

"Hmm," she frowns. "Linda, could you come clear the table? We're finished with dinner. Finn, come with me into the kitchen, I need you to grab something for me."

He knows very well that she does _not_ need him to grab anything for her, just that she wants an excuse to scold him, et cetera, et cetera. He kisses Rachel's temple as he rises from his seat and gives Kurt a warning glance, like, don't you dare make fun of her when I'm not here.

His mom pulls him into the wine cellar (it's more of a pantry, really) and shuts the door behind them. "Finn, I need you to break up with that girl."

"What? No."

"She's ruining your future, Finn, don' you see? This is exactly _why_ I forbade you from going to Brooklyn, I didn't want you meeting people like her. I didn't want you to start in on the path to being unsuccessful."

"Mom, look. I love you, and you're my mom and everything, but Rachel, she's—she's _everything_ to me, and I'm not gonna ruin what I have with her."

"Finn, this is puppy love."

"No, mom, it's real, and I'm completely in love with her. I'm not ending things with her." He storms out of the wine closet and grasps Rachel's arm, tugging her out of her seat and dragging her up the stairs and into his room. His arms pull her close, her forehead knocking into his chest with the force of his movements, and he murmurs, "I'm so sorry," against her dark hair.

He feels hot tears seeping into his shirt, and he's never felt more awful in his life. "Why don't they like me?"

And he can't explain but to tell her that's how they are, baby, and I'm so, so sorry, but it'll never change what we've got. They wind up curled together on his bed, Rachel playing the playlist she made for him on his stereo, and he bare foot taps against his calf as her leg winds around his. "_I feel the sky tumblin' down, I feel my heart start tremblin' whenever you're around, ooh, baby_," she sings, and he squeezes her hip, cause taking off the socks and playing her music is really the way to cheer up his sad girl.

She doesn't ask to be invited over ever again.

_xi_.

The summer is in full bloom, all traces of winter and spring eradicated as the world sinks deeper into August. They're sitting in her room; rather, he's sitting and flipping through various vinyl records at her desk while she's packing up her room. Her voice is soft and smooth as she sings on her own, though, so he discards the records and smiles. "Come here, baby girl," he says, and she balances on his knee.

For the first time ever, she says, "I love you," right out loud, her mouth pressed right up against his ear lobe. He's known that she loves him, that she's loved him from the very first day, but she's been so _afraid_, terrified that he would leave her. His lips curl into a smile as her words really sink in and he kisses her neck in response.

"Let's just skip the next four years and get married," he suggests.

"Let's," she responds, and brings his lips to hers.

_xii_.

It's the first snowfall since they've moved in together. She's a sophomore in college, he's in his second year of being a fireman—it's his calling, he's realized, much to his mother's chagrin. It's his passion, and it's not gonna change any time soon. She still hasn't called him back. He was smart enough to get into his trust fund and funnel it into his own personal bank account before the fallout, though Rachel does refuse to use it.

Rachel curls in a ball on her side of the bed, cold feet pressed between his knees, nose brushing against his. He can feel her breath on his nose. "Baby girl," he murmurs, "wake up."

She groans, scrunching her nose, and pushes his head away. "Too early."

"Please, love, come outside with me." He doesn't wait for her to answer and just hauls her over his shoulder.

He sets her gently on her feet once they're outside. "Oh," she murmurs softly as the snow falls all around them, blanketing the fire escape in white. Her hair is mussed, pillow creases imprinted on her cheeks which bear a sleepy flush.

"_Baby, I'm amazed at the way you love me all the time,_" He sings to her, quiet and soft. He's not much of a singer, but he'll do anything for her, anything to coax a smile to her lips. And smile she does, pretty lips stretching wide to reveal her white, white teeth. She shivers, and she's wearing only his FDNY tee shirt and nothing else.

"You cold, darlin'?" She shakes her head and he knows she's lying. "Let's get back in, huh?" She nods and follows him back inside.

"Finn?"

"Yeah?"

"Think we should put up our Christmas decorations tomorrow?" He swings his arm over her shoulder and kisses her temple.

"I thought we were only celebrating Christmas every other year?"

"I think we should celebrate every year, don't you agree, baby?"

"I do," he agrees. She smiles, sleepy eyes sliding shut, and they're not even in their bedroom before he has to scoop her into his arms and carry her sleeping form to their bed.

_xiii_.

She's a senior in college when he asks her to elope with him. She says no, no she will not elope, Finn Hudson, because she deserves a fairytale wedding. What she wants, she gets, so he proposes again and promises her the wedding of her dreams.

They get married on a cool December Saturday at the beginning of the month. She wears her hair just like he likes, flowing down her back, and her feet are in the prettiest satin shoes he's seen in his life. He knows she wishes to be barefoot, twirling around she's so happy, but she's all about tradition. Her dress is vintage (that much he was allowed to know) with lace from the 1920's and a style from the 1960's. Rachel, he thinks, was born in the wrong time period.

"You ready for this?" He asks after her daddy kisses her cheek and puts her hands in Finn's.

Rachel beams at him and he stops himself from kissing her. He's always had self control problems when it comes to her, always wanted too much of her than he was really allowed. But as he slips the white gold wedding band over her finger, softly so as not to jam her skin, he realizes he's allowed to have as much of her as she gives, and that makes him giddy. He leans forward and kisses her, and her fingers grasp the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, and it's soft and chaste and everything he's ever wanted.

He's spent a lot of his time with her trying to understand her, how from one moment she transforms from a barefooted twirler to a high-strung Broadway performer. She's actually _on_ Broadway, now, dropped out of her senior year to focus on her blooming career. How could he deny her the chance for her dreams? He accepts that she is a paradox and doesn't argue her when she contradicts herself.

"Baby girl," he murmurs as he twirls her on the dance floor. Her painful, satin shoes are sitting beneath their table, "I love you, you know?"

She beams, twirls again, and presses into his chest, singing, "_He's the warmest chord I ever heard, play that warm chord, play and stay, baby_."

He laughs and kisses her.

_xiv_.

He stops at this bakery in Manhattan to grab Rachel a vegan cookie on his way home from his shift. It was a particularly long shift, and he's missed Rachel, which is why he's going so far to get her something so simple. These are her favorites, though, and he knows it'll cheer her up, especially since her director has been so crazy lately.

He hears his name and turns, only to see his mother standing behind him. "Finn," she repeats.

He blinks and nearly drops Rachel's cookie. He wants to run. "Hi, Mom." He doesn't.

She lifts her hand to cover her mouth at the sight of him, traces of ash in his hair and soot scraped across his cheek. "How—how are you?"

Rude, angry feelings swell in him (appropriately) and he wants to walk away and leave her with no answer, just like she left him with no answer to his calls the past nearly eight years. "I'm…I'm really, really good." He grins, because he is, his life is so great right now—Rachel's busy with her show, he's busy at the station, but they're happy and successful.

"How's your wife?" The way her lips coolly wrap around the word _wife_ hits him hard in the chest, 'cause as much as he loves his mom, she'll never really understand his marriage to Rachel.

"Awesome," he smiles goofily, "real great. She's the lead in _Phantom_, so she's busy with that and stuff."

"I'm…glad." She smiles oddly at him and lurches forward to squeeze his forearm. "I'm happy for you, Finn." She's half-lying.

"Thanks, Mom," he says, and turns on his heel and walks out of the bakery. He's consumed with his thoughts about his mom and their meeting the entire ride home on the subway. It hurts that she doesn't really accept him, or his life now, and he _really_ misses her, but she did screw him over, didn't she?

"Rachel," he calls when he gets home, "sunshine, where are you?" Her voice floats in from the bathroom, and he kicks off his boots and socks, placing the cookie on the counter for safekeeping. Their cat, Joni, hops on top of the counter and sniffs at the wrapping before hopping off and wrapping her self between his feet. Rachel's in the bath, bubbles up to her chin, and he slides in behind her after stripping all of his clothes off.

"I brought you a present," he says as his fingers begin to rub circular patterns on the skin of her shoulders. "I saw my mom today."

"What? Where?"

"Manhattan."

"Were you at that bakery I like?" Her eyes widen and her tongue darts out to lick her lips in anticipation. He nods and she cheers excitedly. "Are you okay? Did she say anything?"

"Nothing too important, actually. Just small talk."

She hums and sings, so softly and sweetly, "_I wanna walk with you on a cloudy day, in fields where the yellow grass grows knee high, so won't you try to come?_" Her hands find his and twine their fingers together. "Wanna make dinner together and forget about all that silly stuff?"

"Yeah. Wash my hair for me first?" He relishes the feel of her long nails massaging his scalp.

"Anything for you, baby."

_xv_.

He can hear the steady beeping of a hospital machine, and squirms slightly on the surface he's lying on. Something is jammed into his left arm, something uncomfortable, and his shoulder burns with his movements. One thing he feels (that doesn't feel painful) is a familiar hand in his, shaking slightly, but still there.

Her hand is clammy and cold, and he puts the softest of pressures on it to let her know that he knows she's there. "Finn?" She whispers, and he can hear the tears welling in her throat, and she calls for a doctor.

Slowly, so slowly it feels like they're carrying weights, his eyes slide open, squinting against the harsh whiteness of the hospital room. His chest feels heavy with soot, and he coughs a little before he tries to talk. "Hi, baby," his voice is shot, and raspy to boot.

She glares at him, and he stares at her, long hair tied into a loose ponytail, and he admires the curve of her neck as she begins scolding him. "Finn, I can't imagine what I'd do without you if you died."

"Don't worry," he grumbles softly, so not to butcher his throat even more, "I don't plan on going anywhere without you."

She hums a soft tune, and he smiles and lets his eyes fall shut, because even when he's not home, so long as he's got her, he's home.

_xvi_.

"Help me put up these lights," she pleads, tossing a pack over the rosebush in the front yard, growing right beside that cherry blossom tree that hasn't seen any blossoms since June.

He glances at her and drops the lights he's working on to help her. As he's helping her she hums some Christmas song that she's been playing over and over. "_I'm so hard to handle, I'm selfish, and I'm sad_."

They've been fighting lately, little spats here and there, about little things and big things, and in their most recent one, he'd accused her of being selfish—they'd agreed that after her first Tony, they'd have kids, but now, three awards in and still no baby, and in a fit of anger, he'd called her selfish for wanting to advance further in her career.

They make up, naturally, as they always do, with hugs and soft kisses and gentle, "I'm sorry"s shared in front of the fireplace, and as always, the music pours from her throat.

He's finished framing the front of the house in lights when she sings that melancholy line, and he kisses her as a way of telling her, _no, 'course not, baby_. Her fingers are cold when they curl against his collar, and he brings her inside.

"Can't have my wife getting pneumonia," he teases, placing a chai tea in front of her. They're living in her old house, now, as her dads have moved to Long Island permanently. She sips the tea, hand absentmindedly drawing circles on her abdomen. He stares at the movement, mesmerized by her small, thin finger moving over the planes of her stomach.

"How was your doctor's appointment?" He remembers. She'd been feeling sick and nauseous all week, and on Monday had fainted at rehearsal, which had been the end of any and all fighting. After seeing her, small and pale, in that hospital room, he never wanted to argue with her again.

She smiles at him softly and crooks a finger at him. "Come here." He does as she asks and curls beside her on the couch, the curve of her hip pressing into his abdomen.

"What's up, darlin'?" He runs his hand down her thigh as she presses her cold, bare foot onto his own sock-clad feet.

"I'm pregnant," she says easily, laughing and he grins widely. "That's your early Christmas present."

He laughs and kisses her, he's so, _so_ happy, he feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest and take up residency in hers. He wants to run outside and scream to the world that hey, he's gonna be a daddy, but he knows to keep the colossal things subdued and to overdo the little things.

"I love you, you know," she says, clasping their fingers together over his heart.

"You better," he teases.

_xvi_.

She's always been a pretty mellow person (but for when it comes to her ambitions) but pregnancy seems to mellow her out even more (but for her crying fits). Her final show comes and that's when her mellow attitude goes out the window, only for a night though, as she spends most of it crying into his neck.

And when she starts showing, she cries into the crook of his elbow. That's about it, though, lamenting over her last performance and loss of her "perfect" body. He tells her no matter what, she'll always be perfect to him.

"I like taking these journeys with you," she tells him late one night as his finger traces patterns on his stomach. "I like overcoming new obstacles together."

He presses closer into her side. "Baby girl, you're the sweetest." As if in response to his compliment, his other baby kicks against his hand—for the first time ever (well, that he can feel, at least).

"Did you feel that?" She asks softly, sitting up and pulling her stomach down, "She kicks a lot when you're near." Her eyes are glassy with tears and she draws him close, pressing her soft lips to his, and, "She loves you just like I do."

He never wants this feeling to ebb, he tells her that, and she squeezes his arm, pressing somehow closer into his body. They can't get any closer than this.

"_I never thought I could get satisfaction from just one man, but if anyone keeps me happy, you're the one who can_," she sings, and he kisses her, 'cause he's always loved how she punctuates the little moments with songs.

_xvii_.

He hears her familiar voice floating from the kitchen, and he smiles to himself as he kicks off his boots. "_The bed's too big, the frying pan's too wide; then he comes home and he takes me in his loving arms_," she sings, twirling around with her hair loose, feet bare, ten month old baby in her arms. There are cherry blossom tree petals in her hair, and he drops a kiss on their cheeks—his two girls.

He scoops the baby out of Rachel's arms and lifts her up, inspecting her as he does everyday for any changes. Rachel giggles and slips her arm around him, tucking into his side. Ava reaches a hand out and picks up some of Rachel's dark, loose hair and pulls a petal from it. Her big, dark eyes stare at it inquisitively before she tosses it aside and rests her head in the crook of Finn's neck.

"Love you," he murmurs quietly.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Both of you."

_xviii_.

"Lights," Ava cheers as Finn emerges from the basement, box of Christmas decorations in tow.

"Baby girl," he calls, "let's get hangin' these lights."

"Coming," Rachel yells. He hears her feet padding across the floorboards from wherever in the house she is, and moments later she appears. Ava tugs at her coat jacket, wishing to be held. Groaning slightly, Rachel picks her up, ensuring Ava doesn't kick Rachel's growing stomach. He drags the decorations outside, Rachel and Ava trailing behind him.

Rachel hums a soft Christmas tune, and he knows she's too tired to sing right now. It's nearly three in the afternoon—naptime—so her eyes are beginning to droop right along with Ava's. The sun is beginning to wane as he hangs the lights with Ava's help, while Rachel tries to keep warm. It's a family tradition, she tells him as her teeth chatter. He tucks her into his side, bending to pick up Ava. Rachel leans her head against his, and he knows this is what he was looking for all those years.

Now, the house at the end of the lane is the first to hang lights.

* * *

><p><strong>ah, much better, much nicer, cleaner, etc.<strong>


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